Getaway
by ggo85
Summary: House and Wilson deal with the aftermath of injury and serious conversation while isolated in a ski cabin. No slash. Now COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

House recognized the immaculately starched and perfectly coiffed figure hovering in front of his desk. Wilson. It was too early for lunch. Could be a new case, but Wilson was empty-handed and, in any event, a case could wait until he'd reached the next level on his Gameboy.

Wilson bounced lightly on his heels then cleared his throat. House pushed the pause button on his game and raised an eyebrow.

"Wanna get away?" Wilson asked.

"Southwest Airlines?"

"Ski cabin." 

Right. "In case you hadn't noticed," House replied, pointing at his damaged leg propped up on his desk, "I'm not much into downhill these days."

"Not to ski. It's my parents' cabin," Wilson said, as if that made all the difference in the world.

"Are your parents there?"

"Of course not. You know they live in Wilkes-Barre."

"Okay," House drew out the word. "You got me. Why go to your parents' ski cabin this time of year other than to ski?"

"There are things to do other than ski. Bonnie and I went there just to relax."

"I'm already relaxed! House laced his fingers behind his head and leaned further back in his chair, feet still resting on the desk.

Wilson's eyes flicked from the Gameboy, to the clean white board, to the recliner, to the IPod headphones. "Sorry, I forget that, unlike most people, you only _work_ to relieve the tedium of relaxation."

House tilted his head in mock acknowledgment. "And because it's the only way I can get Cuddy to pay me." He sat up in his chair. "So what's the real reason?"

"Real reason for what?" 

"For wanting me to go with you to this cabin. James Wilson Boy Wonder and first class workaholic never takes time off to relax. There's more to it than that."

"Okay." Wilson raised his hands in mock surrender. "My parents are moving to a retirement community. They're not using the cabin and my brother and I don't want it. So I need to clean out all the personal stuff before they sell it."

"So it's not a getaway weekend?" 

It was Wilson's turn to look flustered. "Yes. Uh, I mean . . . no." He shook he head slightly as if correcting himself. "I just thought you might enjoy getting out of town for a couple of days. And I would . . . enjoy the company."

House steepled his fingers. It all made sense and yet it didn't. And he was all about having things make sense.

"I get it." Wilson rushed to fill the silence. "Bad idea. No TiVo, not even sure the TV works. There's not much to do while I sort through cupboards and boxes of family stuff—"

"I'll go."

Wilson stopped talking, shook his head and looked at him. "What?"

"I said I'll go."

"Why?"

The hint of a smile crossed his features. "To relax." And, he thought to himself, to see what secrets might be lurking in those cupboards and boxes.

------------------------------------------------

"Your car isn't exactly cut out for the snow," House said from the Volvo's passenger seat.

"Which isn't a problem, given that it's not snowing." Wilson's eyes remained glued to the road as the car worked its way up a steep mountain incline.

"But it _could_ snow." They'd left the office early Friday afternoon and had made good progress out of the city. Still, they faced another two hours of mountain terrain to reach the cabin. The sky was overcast, heavy clouds making it seem later in the day than it actually was.

"Not in the forecast; I checked." Of course he did. "Besides," Wilson continued, "cabin's self-sufficient. Stove, dishwasher, refrigerator, fireplace, even a washer and dryer. And lots of canned goods – your kind of place."

House wasn't sure that any place without 24-hour room service and rent-a-porn movies was his kind of place. "Shouldn't we have brought a U-Haul?"

"Most of the stuff stays. Apparently, they sell these things fully furnished. It's really only personal stuff that might be lying around; should all fit in the trunk.

"When's the last time you came up here?"

"Three, four years ago."

"With Julie?"

"Yeah. Thought a romantic getaway weekend was just what we needed." 

"And?" 

Wilson gave him a stern look. "What do you think?"

"Not paradise mountain, obviously."

"A remote cabin is great when you want romance and seclusion," Wilson continued. "When you're at least talking to each other. The problem is that, when you start arguing, there's no place to go. It's worse than a prison."

House gave him a sharp sidelong glance. The Tritter fiasco remained a partially healed wound, scabbed over but festering beneath. As with so many things between them, they'd talked over it, around it, beneath it, but never actually discussed it. Too much discussion wasn't . . . wasn't their way. It could only complicate things.

The car approached an object in the road. A dead raccoon. Wilson swerved to avoid it.

"It was already dead," House said, righting himself in the seat as the car veered back into the lane.

"What?"

"The animal that you almost killed us to avoid hitting."

"Just because it's dead doesn't mean I need to squish it."

"It wouldn't have noticed."

The rode in silence for a few minutes.

"You haven't been back since Julie?" House asked.

"To the cabin? No."

"That bad, huh?"

Wilson sighed with exasperation and stole a quick look at him. "House, are you going to spend the weekend psychoanalyzing me?"

House's eyes didn't move. "It's why I came," he replied, allowing a trace of smugness to creep into his voice.

"Well, it's not why I invited you."

"I know, I'm here to relax."

"And maybe talk."

House shot him another dark glance. "Talk about what?"

"What we've avoided talking about for the last six months."

"I haven't avoided talking about anything," House said.

"You're avoiding now."

House was suddenly grateful for the winding pavement that kept Wilson's eyes on the road. "Is this part of your therapy?" he asked. "Your assignment for the weekend?"

"No and no. I just thought—oh never mind."

House stared straight ahead, fingers twitching in his lap. "So talk."

"About what?"

"About whatever you're so anxious to talk about. I'm all ears."

"I'm not the only one who needs to do the talking."

"So I'll talk." He faced Wilson. "What again am I supposed to talk about?"

"House, we can't talk now. I'm driving."

"You've been driving – and we've been talking – for the last two hours."

"That was . . . a different kind of talk."

"So, you want to talk, a special kind of talk that you can't talk about and can't even listen to when you're driving—"

"Forget it. Just forget it." Wilson's eyes remained on the road and House was left to rethink his agreement to come on this trip.


	2. Talk and relax

The Wilson ski cabin looked exactly as House had pictured it – a small, wooden A-frame set into the side of the mountain. Wilson parked at the end of the long gravel driveway. "Leave everything in the car for now," he said. "I'll unload it later."

"How much of this land is yours?" House pulled himself out of the car and immediately swallowed a gulp of air that was crisp, cold and slightly damp – refreshing in an outdoorsy sort of way.

"Couple acres."

House gently stretched his leg before following Wilson up a half-dozen steps onto a planked porch that spanned the width of the cabin. Wilson unlocked the door, hinges creaking slightly as it opened. He fumbled for the light switch and, a moment later, the room was bathed in a soft yellow glow.

The inside layout was predictable. The main room had a wood-burning fireplace surrounded by a well-worn sofa and loveseat, covered in a blue and wine checked pattern, and a couple of bright orange and yellow vinyl beanbag chairs clearly left over from the disco decade. House didn't fancy himself a decorator, but the color contrast left him slightly nauseous. He followed Wilson past the small kitchen down a short hallway to the bedroom – standard-sized, with a quilt-covered queen bed, bulky oak dresser and small nightstand.

"You can sleep in here. There's another bedroom in the loft with bunks; I'll take that." Wilson pointed to another door across the hallway. "Just the one bath." They returned to the main room. "There's storage in the basement and along both sides of this room that I need to go through." Wilson nodded toward the sofa. "Sit down. Relax while I bring in the stuff."

House started to protest, at least suggest that he could help, even if he had no intention of doing so. But several hours cooped up in the car had taken its toll, and Wilson would no doubt give him endless grief for even trying to carry supplies, especially up and down the outside stairs. He pulled out the Vicodin bottle and popped two pills into his mouth, one to compensate for the car ride and the other just because it hurt.

He spotted the 20-inch TV in the corner and turned it on, flipping through the channels. It didn't take long, given that only one channel had decent reception. As Wilson had promised – no cable, no VCR, no TiVo. Nearby were well-worn board games – Monopoly, Life, Trivial Pursuit, Parcheesi, Yatzee – and, stacked next to them, decks of cards, poker chips, Chinese checkers, and even a cribbage board. Who still played cribbage?

House returned to the sofa, tapping his fingers on the armrest. What the hell was he going to do all weekend – other than torment Wilson and "talk?" And he had no intention of doing that. "Are we staying for a weekend" he called out as Wilson carted in bags of supplies, "or a month?"

"I just wanted to make sure we had something to eat other than three-year-old tomato soup." A few minutes later, Wilson dropped a bag on the floor and closed the door behind him. "That's it," he said. "I'll put this away and fix dinner."

Giving up on the lone channel of TV, House wandered over to the built-in oak bookcases surrounding the mantle. His attention was immediately drawn to a framed picture of two boys on skis, with the cabin as backdrop. One was obviously a young Wilson and it didn't take much detective work to figure that the other was his brother, Mark. There were additional photos of Wilson's parents, Wilson, Mark, and even a dog. However, none of Wilson's other brother – the one who was missing, no longer in his life.

"Are you up for chicken parmiagiana?" Wilson called from the kitchen.

"Great." Anything Wilson cooked had to be good.

Wilson had stopped in his tracks, dishtowel in hand, eyes taking in House and the pictures.

"Love the family photos," House said, eyebrows arching toward the ceiling. "All the Wilsons minus one." 

Wilson's lips formed the tight line that signaled his anger. "Leave it alone, House."

House almost made a snide comment in return. Almost. Something in Wilson's demeanor told him that, while this weekend might provide an opportunity to explore some of the more interesting aspects of Wilson's life, he had to choose his moments carefully and this probably wasn't one of them. "I'm okay with peanut butter sandwiches, if you don't want to cook."

"Two problems," Wilson said, his body immediately relaxing. "I've eaten more peanut butter sandwiches these past couple of months than I can count and I didn't bring any peanut butter."

"How can you come to a cabin without peanut butter? Tell me you at least brought stuff for S'mores."

"Absolutely. Though, we're not exactly cooking over the campfire."

"There's a fireplace."

"Along with a microwave and central heat."

"Doesn't that ruin the whole concept of lounging naked in front of the fireplace covered in a fur rug?"

"We don't have a fur rug either," Wilson deadpanned.

"Might have helped with Julie."

Later, after they'd eaten and Wilson had cleared the dishes, he produced a cardboard box and a handful of dishtowels and began packing away the photos.

"_You_ took down the pictures of your brother," House said quietly.

"There are plenty of pictures of my brother," Wilson countered, showing House the one he was wrapping – a picture of Mark on skis holding up a trophy.

"Your other brother."

"I don't have another brother." He paused for a moment. "And how do you know it wasn't my parents who took the pictures?"

"Parents never give up hope."

The sky had darkened and raindrops spattered against the roof. Wilson grabbed the final framed photo and added it to the box. "My parents still have this delusion that some day David will magically appear at their door, happy and healthy with a great job and maybe even a wife and kids and tell them it was all a bad dream."

"And you think it's better for them to believe he's lying in some flophouse or in Potter's Field?"

"It's more likely to be true," Wilson responded bitterly.

"Is he older or younger?"

"Two years younger; the middle son. I don't want to talk about this."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"Then why bring me here? You knew I'd see these pictures."

Wilson gave the exaggerated sigh that always signaled his frustration. "House! You're not a psychiatrist, and I'm not having some impromptu therapy session with you."

"You said it was personal."

"What?" 

"The reason _you_ went to the psychiatrist. Was it about your missing brother? Is that why you're getting rid of the pictures, the mementos, the cabin? Because you know he's not coming back?"

"You're crazy." 

"I'm right," House challenged.

"No, you're not. I don't know any more about my brother today than I did last week, last month, last year or the last ten years."

"So it's personal means it's not about your brother."

"It's personal means it's none of your business."

No, House thought to himself. It's personal meant he simply had yet to figure it out.


	3. Playing games

House shook the five dice in the little cup and tossed them onto the sofa table. The roll produced two sixes, and the rest junk. "Why again are we playing Yatzee?"

"Because you didn't want to play Monopoly, neither of us remembers how to play Parcheesi, and I'm too tired to play anything that makes me use my brain." Wilson took his turn with the dice. "And, because the only alternative is watching _Numb3rs_."

"That's because you only get one channel."

"House." Wilson sighed with exasperation. "No one comes to a ski cabin to watch TV."

"And they do come to play Yatzee?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and then the dice, immediately producing a large straight. House scowled at that and scowled even more when his three rolls produced only a couple of threes. It took only a few more minutes for them to reach silent agreement that playing Yatzee sucked and the better move was a couple of cold beers and a bowl of chips.

"So," House said, dipping his hand into the chips, "tell me about your long lost brother."

"I've already told you all you need to know. He's no longer in my life."

"I get that. But he was in your life at some point and he's not now. So, ergo, something happened in between."

"Your powers of deduction amaze me," Wilson replied.

"Come on. Every Jewish family has at least one doctor – that's you. Mark has a good job, nice wife, kids. Parents are decent, hard-working. Yet other brother ends up on the streets."

"Sometimes bad things happen to good people."

"More often, good people go bad."

Wilson stared at his beer. "He was a good person. _ Is _a good person."

"So, what happened?"

"Did anyone ever tell you that you can be really annoying?"

"It's why people love me," House replied with a smirk.

Wilson sighed. "If you're looking for some cataclysmic event that started all this, there isn't one. David didn't fall on his head as a baby, wasn't whipped when he misbehaved, wasn't sexually abused. Nothing like that. I wish it had been, because maybe all this would make sense."

"So?"

"I guess he fell in with the wrong crowd." Wilson took a long, slow sip of his beer. "In school, David was one of those kids who didn't apply himself. It didn't help that everyone was always comparing him to me. You know – 'why can't you be more like James?'"

House nodded as if he knew, even though he didn't. As an only child, he'd often tried to imagine what it was like to have a brother or sister and – couldn't. The whole concept of siblings was foreign.

"Things started to go bad when I went to college. At first, it was minor stuff –skipping school, smoking, drinking – nothing too serious. Just enough to keep his name in front of the school principal and the local cops."

House grabbed a handful of chips and munched loudly to fill the silence.

Wilson took another sip of his beer, then blew air across the top of the bottle. "My parents didn't know what to do. They weren't exactly disciplinarians. I think they were more embarrassed than anything and hoped he'd eventually grow out of it."

"And then it turned serious."

Wilson stretched his feet onto the sofa table and twisted his back, eyes glazed with the faraway look of someone reliving a moment in time. "It was the day I took the medical licensing exam," he said, voice quiet. "Afterwards, a bunch of us went out to celebrate. When I got home, there was a message on the answering machine from David. From jail. He and some friends got stopped for speeding. They were drunk and underage and the cops found marijuana in the car."

House let out a low whistle.

"So," Wilson continued, "it's three in the morning, I'm ninety minutes away, I've had too much to drink, and I need $5,000 to bail David out of jail."

"You should have let him spend the night."

"Didn't do you any good."

House glared at him – it was the second time today Wilson had mentioned jail. Was this Wilson's not-to-subtle reminder of the fate that had almost befallen them at the hands of Detective Tritter?

Wilson appeared not to notice as he took a final swig of beer, then set the empty bottle on the table. "If I'd been there for him—" 

House snorted with annoyance. "Don't tell me you're going to make this your fault?"

Wilson's eyes met his and House saw the pain that only years of unresolved guilt could produce. "I was his brother, House, his big brother. Big brothers are supposed to take care of little brothers; that's how it works."

"Not forever."

"How would you know?"

"I know he was old enough to be responsible for what he did."

"So were you."

"Don't make this about me."

"I'm not making it about anything. All I know is that every time someone I care about gets into trouble, I can't seem to help them."

"It's not your job to help them."

"It's not a job! It's what friends do."

House sat forward on the loveseat, thigh muscle straining in protest. "You're not responsible for what your brother did and you sure as hell aren't responsible for me."

"I prescribed your pills."

House dropped back against the cushion. Not this again.

"I'm still prescribing for you," Wilson added softly. "Even after all that's happened, I'm still writing those damned prescriptions."

Suddenly, it all made sense. "You prescribed for David, didn't you?" 

"Of course not," Wilson snapped. He hunched over, forearms on his knees, head in his hands and, for nearly a minute, didn't move. Finally, a heavy sigh escaped. "Yes, I did. Not then. Later." Wilson lifted his head and looked straight at House. "Go ahead, tell me I'm an idiot."

House held Wilson's eyes. It was one of the very few times that he didn't know what to say. No smart comeback. No words of wisdom. He wanted to tell Wilson that it was okay, that it wasn't his fault, tell him the right things to make him feel better, or at least less guilty. But there was nothing to say.

Wilson stood up, picked up the beer bottle and a soiled napkin. "I'm going to bed."


	4. Fire and ice

His skis were parallel, running smoothly and quickly over the snow. Head down, body coiled over itself for maximum speed, poles tight against his sides. A tree rushed past and then another. Vibrations rippled through his body as his skis hit a bump, thighs and calves straining with the effort of forcing them back onto the snow.

The path ahead was clear. His knees bent into the turn, muscles burning as they battled gravity, then slipped back into the tuck. Speed and more speed, trees blurring his peripheral vision. Wind batted his face, eyes protected by the visor, as he pushed himself down the mountain, faster and faster. He approached the next turn, left hand reaching out, nearly dipping into the snow. Quickly, he returned to his tuck, pushing ahead and down, approaching a hard and fast turn to the right.

His right leg pressed toward the snow to get the angle. It was coming so quickly – he wasn't going to make it. He pressed harder, thigh screaming in agony. It wasn't enough, his turn wasn't tight enough. His leg was giving out, sliding underneath him, sending him tumbling toward the tree line. A towering pine lay dead ahead. He turned his body to take the impact on his side. He pivoted to the left, thigh slamming into--

Pain! Fire! The two-pronged assault on his senses startled him awake. He tossed off the quilt and immediately grabbed his thigh. Damn! The intensity of the pain made him momentarily nauseous but the breaths he forced himself to take tasted like smoke. He had to get out of here. He lifted his right leg off the bed, unable to stifle a howl of pain.

"Wilson!" He pushed himself onto the floor and grabbed his cane from the nightstand. With his first step, his leg gave out, and he nearly fell flat on his face. Shit.

Only a few halting steps had taken him as far as the bedroom door. He felt around its edges as he'd been taught in some stupid fire prevention course. He'd always doubted it did any good but was still relieved when smoke didn't poor through the door as it opened.

"Wilson!"

"What?" Wilson stood at the end of the short hallway hands on his hips.

"Where's the fire?"

"In the fireplace." Wilson pointed to the burning kindling and newspaper shooting smoke into the chimney.

"Shit, you might have told me."

"Shit, you were asleep. You wanted me to wake you to tell you that I was starting a fire?"

"You said this place was heated."

"A fire's part of the atmosphere."

"At night, not at seven in the morning."

"Look, last night's rain turned to ice and it's still coming down." Wilson pointed out the front windows. "We'll probably lose power and I wanted to get a fire started before that happens."

"Boy Wonder turned boy scout." House involuntarily grabbed his thigh. Now that the adrenaline rush had worn off, the stabbing pain was back with a vengeance. The narrowing of Wilson's eyes and slight change in posture meant that he'd noticed. For probably the millionth time, House cursed the fact that Wilson was a doctor. Of course, even a medically-ignorant, just plain old friend Wilson would have noticed his discomfort.

"How long has your leg been hurting like that?" Wilson asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep his tone casual.

"About eight years ago, I had this infarction. And the well-meaning but incompetent doctors treating me—"

"House! I mean this morning. Pain's worse than usual, isn't it?" He sighed, already satisfied with his diagnosis. "Being crammed into the car yesterday didn't help. Let me take a quick look at it. I brought some stuff, just in case."

"It's fine." House brushed past Wilson into the kitchen. It wasn't but, if allowed to see the truth, Wilson would insist on examining him, would bitch about his dependence on pain meds, and that would inevitably lead to a discussion he didn't want to have. He'd rather curl into a ball until the pain receded enough to let him function. Or, give himself a shot of morphine. Or both. "Just need my morning meds."

Wilson favored him with a disapproving look as he downed two Vicodin. "It's not enough any more, is it?" Wilson asked, in a voice filled with resignation. "That's why you were hoarding all those pills, that's why you pulled the brain cancer stunt." He leaned against the counter, crossed arms obscuring the logo on his sweatshirt. "Why didn't you tell me the pain's been getting worse?"

Shit, House thought to himself, here we go again. "Why do you always have to be a doctor? Why for one weekend, can't you just be a friend?"

"I _am_ your friend, or trying to be. Although friends don't usually hide brain cancer."

"For god's sake, I didn't have brain cancer!"

"As for being your doctor," Wilson continued, as if he hadn't spoken, "I'm not. Not really. Patients are supposed to tell their doctors when their medication isn't working, not forge their signatures to get more drugs."

"Is that what this trip's really about?" House was shouting now, pointing his finger in accusation. "Rubbing my nose in it?"

"It didn't have to happen."

"Well, it did. It happened. And now it's over. If you want to spend three hours a week rehashing every gory detail with your goddam shrink, then do it. But leave me out of it."

"House, nothing's changed." Wilson's voice remained maddeningly calm, almost sad. House hated that. "We got dragged through hell for months and now you're right back where you started. Still not doing PT. Still taking way more Vicodin than you should. And, judging from the look of you this morning, it's not even working."

"I told you last night that you're not responsible for me."

"I am as long as I'm prescribing for you."

"Then stop. Stop being my doctor. Stop being my friend. Stop doing whatever makes you miserable, whatever makes you scarf down bottles of anti-depressants. Get on with your life and leave me alone."

Wilson stood there unmoving, his expression a combination of hurt, anger and more emotions than House could count. Come on, House thought to himself, play the game. Yell back at me. Get all passive-aggressive like you always do.

Instead, Wilson stepped away from the counter and grabbed his parka off the back of a chair. "I'll get some wood for the fire."

"Forget the fire. Let's get out of here. This whole relaxation thing isn't working."

Wilson didn't turn around as he pulled on his gloves. "Roads are covered with ice. Until it melts, we're stuck." He stepped outside, allowing a blast of cold air to enter before slamming the door shut behind him.

House shivered and edged closer to the fire, watching the flames leap upward and recalling Wilson's earlier comment about the cabin seeming like a prison when you're not getting along. A cold prison from which there would be no escape for at least a day. A day of pain for him and psychobabble from Wilson. Just what he needed. At least the tentacles of Vicodin had finally grabbed onto his pain and eased it ever so slightly.

Coming with Wilson to the cabin had been a mistake. Not only did every word seem to spark flames of anger, but the usual avenues of escape were gone. He hadn't counted on the brother thing. It had been a shot in the dark, asking Wilson if he'd prescribed for David. Maybe that's what was making Wilson so sensitive about writing scrips for his pain. Of course, his situation wasn't the same. He had chronic pain from a real medical condition. He was a doctor. It was different, entirely different.

He absently massaged his thigh. The pain _was_ worse, had been getting worse over the last couple of months. Or had his tolerance to the pain meds increased? Shit. It was all so complicated and made even more so by Wilson. Despite what he'd just said, House wanted him as a friend and needed him as a doctor. Or was it the other way around?

Thuds across the porch signaled Wilson's imminent return and time for him to escape. He couldn't go far but staying in the main room would inevitably lead to another confrontation over Tritter, Vicodin, or any other subject that would have them in each other's face. He had to get out, even if "out" was only a few feet of separation.

Fifteen minutes and a hot shower later, he returned to the main room. The shower had done almost as much for his mood as the Vicodin had for his leg. He was still pissed at Wilson, but not as much. On the floor near the fireplace, a small pile of logs testified to Wilson's progress.

House searched the kitchen for a pre-breakfast snack, settling for a handful of cereal that tasted like trail mix and wondering whatever happened to Sugar Pops and Cocoa Puffs. The cabin remained eerily quiet other than the sound of his munching. Something was wrong. It was the same nagging feeling he often got in the middle of a case when he'd overlooked an important symptom. What was it?

House's eyes were drawn to the pile of logs. He counted eight. How many would Wilson bring each trip? Three at least, at a couple of minutes per trip. A glance at his watch showed that more than twenty minutes had passed since he'd gone to take his shower. There should either be more logs or Wilson should be fixing omelets.

Wilson's pager and cell phone were on the kitchen table, exactly where he'd tossed them last night. No way would Wilson leave without them. A quick search proved Wilson wasn't anywhere in the cabin. House stared out the front windows, but the falling sleet obscured any footprints. Where in the hell was Wilson?

Outside, the only sound was the splatter of the icy rain. House grabbed his coat from the back of the sofa realizing that he hadn't brought a hat or gloves. Heading out with a cane and tennis shoes wasn't smart but, if Wilson wasn't in the cabin, there was only one place he could be. And only one person who could find him.

The instant House stepped onto the porch, his foot slipped and only a last-minute grab of the doorframe kept him from falling flat on his ass. Pain radiated from his arm to his toes as he inched along the cabin wall, grabbing onto anything solid with his right hand, holding the cane in his left, and damning his slowness with every miserable step. He yelled Wilson's name, then listened over the soft tapping of freezing rain.

It was a sound, a voice. Could be Wilson's voice. But it was off, somehow. And Wilson would never let him outside under these conditions if he could prevent it. House refused to think what that meant.

"Hold on. I'm coming."

Cursing the cabin, the weather, his leg, and everything else that slowed his progress, he inched his way to the end of the porch and peered over the edge, getting his first look at the steps and the ground below. His heart sank.


	5. Slip and fall

Title: Getaway, Part 5

Disclaimer: I don't own House, Wilson or anything else related to House, MD. Don't even rent them. Only thing I'm looking for is the satisfaction of continuing the story for my own amusement.

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Wilson lay crumpled near the base of the steps, logs scattered around him and a layer of ice covering his parka. Damn. He must have fallen on the way up. How badly was Wilson injured? Badly enough, House's mind automatically answered, that he'd yet to pick himself up let alone get back to the cabin.

Forcing himself to breathe, House called down again. "Wilson, move something. Show me you're okay." The sound of frozen rain falling on Wilson's still body competed with the pulsing of his own heartbeat. Nothing happened other than his worry increased a huge notch. "Dammit, Wilson, move!" Was that a twitch? "Again!"

Slowly, the ugly blue snow hat tilted backwards and Wilson's brown eyes met his. House exhaled with relief. Wilson wasn't dead and, with a little luck, maybe not even seriously injured. But the longer Wilson stayed outside, the worse things would get.

"Hold on." It came out with a lot more confidence than he felt. Only eight steps separated him from Wilson – eight icy, slippery steps that would challenge an able-bodied man. He clearly needed help if he was to make it down the stairs without sharing Wilson's fate. Anxious eyes roamed the cabin's outer walls searching for anything to aid his descent. There! Coiled onto a rusty hook was a green-striped garden hose. House had no idea how many years it had hung there exposed to the elements but he needed an anchor and this was it, short of returning inside. And there was no time for that.

House secured one end of the hose to the railing and the other around his waist, trying to avoid thinking about whether it would hold him. Halfway down, his foot again slipped out from under him and only a simultaneous grab of the hose and railing kept him from instantly joining Wilson at the bottom. Damn that hurt.

"House!" Wilson's voice from below was weak and raspy. "Careful."

The smile that creased House's face at the sound of Wilson's voice faded just as quickly. No wonder Wilson had fallen – a portion of the second step from the bottom had given way. The entire stairway was probably rotted out.

At this point, he had little choice but to keep going. His speed increased and his luck held. The instant his feet hit the ground, he was at Wilson's side, automatically searching for injury.

"I'm okay," Wilson hissed.

Firm hands steadied Wilson's face. "Did you hit your head?" It was hard to tell much in this weather, but the pupils seemed equal and reactive.

"No."

"Know where you are?"

"Cabin."

"What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"What's Cuddy's cup size?"

Wilson gave him an annoyed look. "Venti."

"Bra size, you idiot, not Starbucks," he growled, at the same time unable to suppress a smile.

"Venti," Wilson repeated more forcefully.

"Got it." House pressed icy fingers against Wilson's equally icy carotid. Pulse was fast, but strong. Satisfied, he pulled his hand back. "Any numbness?"

Wilson seemed to consider the question for the moment, as if mentally checking his own limbs.

"Wilson?"

After a few seconds he shook his head.

"What _does_ hurt?"

"Knee." A grimace. "Chest." Getting out each word seemed to be a strain. Wilson held up his left hand. "Wrist, I think."

Wilson had mentioned chest pain. His breathing was shallow and rapid but that could be due to the cold and shock as much as the injury itself. Still, best to get some confirmation. House cocked his head and fixed Wilson with his sternest clinical appraisal. "Any trouble breathing?" he asked in a tone that dared Wilson to equivocate.

Wilson managed a look of annoyance. "No. Hurts though."

Pain on inhalation suggested a possible rib fracture – something else that House couldn't do much about here. "Okay, let's get you inside." Out of the cold and where he could do a more complete exam. He didn't fully trust Wilson's self-assessment of his injuries.

Wilson stretched out a hand. "Help me up."

"Hold on. Let me check your leg first." Wilson had mentioned leg pain and it wouldn't do for him to put weight on a broken bone or torn ligament. He stooped down, and ran his hands along the leg, finding no obvious fractures or instability in Wilson's knee.

The situation with his own leg was another matter; the constant strain of this rescue effort was taking its toll. House crushed the pangs of his own discomfort; he could deal with that once he'd taken care of Wilson. Hips braced against the railing, House slipped a hand under Wilson's armpit. Wilson exhaled painfully, protecting his chest and leg as he was slowly pulled to his feet.

"Come on, Wilson," House implored, his thigh crying out at the effort of holding the weight of two men. "I can't lift you by myself."

Grunting and groaning, Wilson managed to stand, supporting himself on his left leg, left arm wrapped tightly around his midsection.

"I'd carry you, but . . ."

"'sokay."

"Can you put any weight on the leg?"

The effort was met with another painful grunt. Best to keep Wilson off it as much as possible. "Okay, here's what we'll do. You scoot up the steps on your ass and hope they hold out for one more trip. Then, we'll slide you to the door. I'll take pictures and sell 'em on Ebay."

Wilson made a face, then nodded and leaned into him for support.


	6. Always prepared

Getaway, Part 6

Disclaimer: I don't own House, Wilson or anything else related to House, MD. Don't even rent them. Only thing I'm looking for is the satisfaction of continuing the story for my own amusement.

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Progress was slow and painful. Once inside, House quickly peeled off his parka and then helped Wilson out of his coat, hat and gloves and maneuvered him onto the couch.

"Okay, sport," he said when Wilson was settled in a semi-reclining position, head propped up with cushions. "Where's the first aid kit?"

Wilson didn't open his eyes. "Pantry."

The "first aid kit" was an enormous bag that, to House's surprise and relief, contained enough supplies for a Caribbean missions trip.

"Planning to open a clinic?" he asked, returning to the main room, bag in hand.

"Prepared," Wilson mumbled.

"Got that already." House eased himself onto the sofa table and extracted a penlight, thermometer and stethoscope from the pack. He'd have to do this the old-fashioned way. "Open your eyes."

"Head's okay."

"Hard as a rock, I know, but it's your brain I'm worried about. Open."

Wilson grudgingly obeyed, fixing House with a tired stare.

"Pupils are okay," he said after a moment, clicking off the light. Experienced hands probed for bumps or contusions.

Wilson jerked away from the touch. "I _didn't_ hit my head."

House pulled back his hands. Wilson didn't appear to be displaying any symptoms of concussion or CNS injury _now_, but these things could take hours or even days to manifest. Still, best to move on for the time being. "Okay, but you could be hypothermic." A thermometer slid into Wilson's mouth. "And now it's time to get naked."

"Huh?"

"ABCs of trauma management," House said. "Your airway's open, you're breathing, circulation's okay. I'm the disabled one. So, we're down to exposure." He pointed to the ice from Wilson's jeans that was melting onto the sofa. "You need to get out of this wet gear."

Wilson nodded, started to pull up his sweatshirt and immediately gasped, the thermometer nearly dropping out of his mouth.

House cursed silently, worried that Wilson's injuries were more serious than he'd let on. "I'm getting the scissors." He scrounged in the backpack and held up a surgical pair, slicing through the air.

"Favorite shirt," Wilson protested.

"And I'm so not buying you a new one." The thermometer beeped. "97.2," he read aloud. House made quick work of the sweatshirt, leaving Wilson somewhat pathetic in his white Jockey T-shirt.

Wilson's eyes widened and a shiver rolled across his body. "Cold."

"You get a blanket when I've finished examining you," House said, not unkindly, frowning as he peeled away the T-shirt. Bruises were already forming along Wilson's chest where he'd obviously smashed it against the steps, a log, or both.

Starting with the collarbone, House ran his fingers along Wilson's shoulders and arms, feeling for broken bones. He hadn't done a trauma evaluation since his internal medicine residency – more years ago than he cared to remember.

"Already told you," Wilson said, making a half-hearted attempt to push away his hands, "where it hurts."

"Yeah," he said, continuing his probe. "And I so believe you." The minute he touched the left wrist, Wilson gasped. "Need to see if it's broken." House lightened his touch as he manipulated Wilson's hand until he was satisfied that the injury was no worse than a sprain.

"I'll put ice on that when I'm done," he said, gently lowering Wilson's arm. "Okay, need you to sit up so I can check your chest. Won't be fun. Sorry," he added almost as an afterthought.

With Wilson again in a sitting position, he warmed the bell of the stethoscope in his palm and placed it against Wilson's bare back. "Deep breath."

Wilson started to comply but immediately groaned, caught himself, and quickly exhaled. House frowned and repositioned the stethoscope. "C'mon. Need a _deep_ breath."

"Shit," Wilson said as he sucked in air.

House silently echoed the sentiment. Lung sounds were equal, but pain on inhalation suggested broken ribs. He moved the stethoscope to Wilson's chest. Heart rate was still elevated but otherwise the chest sounded okay. House supported Wilson's back, using his right hand to palpate the ribcage. Wilson didn't complain as he pressed along the left side, but the instant his fingers reached the right rib area, Wilson instinctively tried to pull away.

"Hold still." House held him tighter and continued his exam. "Looks like a couple of fractures," he announced, lowering Wilson onto the cushions before reaching to unbutton his jeans.

Wilson pushed him away. "I can do it."

Wilson obviously thought he could do it and clearly wanted to do it but, ended up creating a lot of pain for himself without making much progress. With a sigh, House tugged the soggy jeans over Wilson's hips and eased them over the injured leg. Even with the heat and nearby fire, Wilson was shivering. House grabbed a throw blanket and covered his torso.

"Thanks."

"It's not that I give a damn."

Wilson managed a half smile. "'Course not."

House's eyes were immediately drawn to Wilson's right shin. "You've got a three-inch laceration." The injury was deep but not bleeding heavily. "Should put in a couple of sutures. You bring a kit?"

"Yeah."

"Of course you did. Need to check your belly."

"House." Exasperation this time. "I'm okay, really."

"You've got broken ribs, a sprained wrist, lacerated leg, and who knows what damage to your knee. You're a klutz and a moron but you're not okay."

Wilson rolled his eyes but made no further protest. Careful palpation of Wilson's abdomen revealed no tenderness or rigidity. Good news for now. And a quick check of the knee showed Wilson hadn't sustained a serious tear. A more definitive diagnosis would have to await a date with the MRI.

"You'll live," he pronounced. "Let's start with the ice and pain meds and then I'll suture your leg." He pushed himself up from the table and promptly fell back, unable to repress a groan. Damn. In his concern over Wilson, he'd allowed his leg to cramp and it protested at the sudden movement.

Wilson's eyes snapped open. "House, what's—" It was Wilson's turn to groan as his ribs protested his attempt to sit up.

"Lie back down before you give yourself a pneumothorax," House barked.

Wilson complied, but House could feel the oncologist's eyes on him as he stretched out his leg and carefully massaged the muscles of his thigh.

"How bad?" Wilson asked.

"Well, I'd like to get you to a hospital for an MRI. But, I think you're okay here until the weather clears."

"I meant your leg."

Of course he did. "It's fine."

"It's so not fine. Give me a number."

"Hey, I'm the one playing doctor."

"House," Wilson said, warning in his voice.

"Six."

"You're lying."

He stood, this time without obvious pain. "Sue me."

In the kitchen, he made icepacks using cubes from old-style trays and Ziploc bags. It took two painful trips, but the result was dishtowel-wrapped icepacks on Wilson's wrist and knee and Advil down his throat. Satisfied, House pulled out the suture kit and set to work cleaning the wound.

Wilson's eyes opened into a squint. "When's the last time you put in sutures?"

House didn't look up as he injected the lidocaine. "It's like riding a bike."

Wilson frowned. "Hope not the way you ride."

"Har, har." He focused on his sewing – it wouldn't do to leave a nasty scar; Wilson would never let him hear the end of it.

Five stitches later, he removed the icepacks, propped a pillow under Wilson's knee, then wrapped an ace bandage. This patient care thing was hard work; no wonder he avoided it at all costs. "Too tight?" he asked apprehensively.

"It's fine."

He frowned. "Looks like crap."

"Not a beauty contest."

"Good, cause the rest of you looks like crap too." In truth, the bandage on Wilson's wrist was slightly tighter. He hobbled to the bedroom and returned with the quilt, carefully tucking it around Wilson's shoulders, legs and feet.

Wilson's eyes smiled. "Sorry."

"You're always sorry. About what this time?"

"You're supposed to relax. Not take care of me."

"If it makes you feel better, I'll quit."

Wilson merely closed his eyes.

"I'll see about breakfast."

"Not hungry."

"Need food to go with the ibuprofen. I'll fix eggs."

"You can't cook."

"Right now, neither can you."

House watched as Wilson struggled to eat scrambled eggs right-handed with a fork, then a spoon, and still little cakes of yellow dribbled down the front of the quilt.

"Want me to feed you?" House offered, setting aside his own now-empty plate.

"No way."

"Better than starving."

"Won't starve." Wilson handed back the plate.

"Okay, but you need to do deep breathing exercises."

"Later."

The lights in the cabin flickered briefly.

"Oh-oh," House said. "God wants you to do them."

"Later."

Crap. This was why he hated dealing with patients, even if the patient was Wilson. Why couldn't they just do what they were supposed to?

The lights went off and then came back on. Just as he breathed a sigh of relief, they went off again. This time they stayed off. Great. They'd have to rely on the fireplace for warmth and that meant he'd probably have to make the trip to replenish the log supply. Just great. He checked the position of Wilson's wrist and knee and took his pulse. Satisfied, he put another log on the fire, stretched out on the nearby loveseat, and welcomed the warmth of the crackling fire.


	7. Deal with the devil

"What in the world is this?" House asked, holding up a most unusual object.

Two hours had passed since they'd lost power and he'd had spent much of that time fishing through cabinets and drawers ferreting out the "personal" items Wilson wanted to take home. House, who'd planned a quiet weekend on the couch watching Wilson work, wasn't thrilled with the role reversal. The cramping pain in his leg hadn't really abated; but to admit that to Wilson would be to invite another round of guilt, recriminations, and unwanted advice. So, flashlight in hand, he'd searched the storage area on the side of the cabin walls. He'd emerged with a contraption that only Wilson could explain. And he was really looking forward to that explanation.

"It's an invisible dog."

"A what?" House's eyes flicked from the object in his hands to Wilson on the couch. What he was holding could best be described as a yellow leash stiffened into a permanent arc. Attached on one end was an equally stiffened empty red harness large enough to hold a dog about the size of Steve.

Wilson sighed and leaned his head back onto the cushions. "It's an invisible dog."

House allowed the leash to dangle from his fingers. "I'm sure you're going to explain to me the benefit of a dog that doesn't exist."

"When we were kids, we all wanted a dog. Well, all of us except my parents. Chasing after three boys was enough. The last thing they needed was another living creature that they'd end up taking care of."

"So they bought this instead?" House asked incredulously.

"No, David got it at Hershey Park. I'm not sure if he was trying to guilt-trip my parents or something else. But he insisted on bringing it everywhere, just like a real dog."

"I saw a dog in the pictures."

"Yeah, a few years later my parents finally caved."

House shrugged, chagrined that the story behind the leash wasn't nearly as interesting as he'd hoped. Snatching up the flashlight, he headed back into the storage area, returning a few minutes later with more items.

A pair of child-sized mittens was relegated to the trash as were copies of _Southern Living_ and a handful of ski magazines. With a flourish, House showed the next items to Wilson – nearly a dozen cassette tapes.

"Let's see what we have here." House said, unable to repress the eagerness in his voice as he turned over the first cassette. "Hmm. ABBA. _Voulez-Vous_. Now there's a goodie."

Wilson groaned. "Trash."

"Oh, come on. Some real classics here. _ Does Your Mother Know_, _Kisses of Fire_, _Chiquitita_ – what the hell does that mean?"

"Trash, House."

"I don't think that's what it means. Isn't it a banana?" He flipped through a few more cassettes. Beatles _White Album_ – that was okay. Bee Gees – okay for the time. "Love this one. Barry Manilow – _The Live Album_. The Village People just has to be here somewhere."

This time, Wilson studiously ignored him.

The beeping of a pager shattered the silence. House reached for the one on his belt realizing at virtually the same instant that the noise was coming from the table. Wilson's pager.

Wilson's eyes popped open and he automatically started to rise.

"Stay put, I'll get it," House said, pulling himself up even as Wilson sank back down with a groan.

"Bring it here," Wilson called out softly.

"I can read. It's from your service. Is your number on speed dial?"

"Two."

"So I must be numero uno, huh?" House punched in the number on Wilson's cell. "Who's covering for you?"

"Mendez. Bring me the phone."

House ignored him. "This is Dr. House," he said, when the service answered. "I'm calling on behalf of Dr. Wilson, who's – um – indisposed."

Wilson frowned and made frantic motions with his right hand. "House, give me the phone."

House mad a big show of listening and nodding to the receptionist's every word. "I see," he said when she'd finished. "Well, Mendez is covering this weekend . . . uh huh . . . I'll be sure to tell him. In the meantime, call Mendez."

Wilson was furious. "Which patient?" he asked tightly.

"Mary quite contrary or something like that." How the hell was he supposed to remember the name?

"Marilyn Haverford." Wilson sighed as heavily as his injured ribs would allow. "She having breakthrough pain?" 

House nodded.

"Give me the phone."

"Mendez can handle a simple pain med adjustment."

"Not the point. She's my patient. I told her she could call me day or night."

"Doesn't mean you have to answer."

"The phone, House." Wilson was barely able to contain his frustration.

"Tell you what. If you promise to take some deep breaths and answer three questions about your brother, I'll give it to you."

"Jackass."

"Since we don't want you getting pneumonia, the deep breaths are good for you. And hearing about your brother is good for me." House taunted him with the cell phone. "Deal?"

Wilson glared at him for nearly a full minute before reaching out his hand.

House half listened as Wilson spoke first to Mendez and then to his patient. There was talk of dosing regimens, central lines, Fentanyl, Oxycontin, adjustments to the cocktail and a host of other boring oncologic talk.

House took advantage of the calls to refill the icepacks and grab some more Advil. He carefully lifted the quilt, removed the bandages, and placed the packs on Wilson's wrist and knee, causing shivers to ripple through Wilson's body. "Where'd you put your clothes?"

"Loft."

"Done climbing for the day. I'll get you some of mine." He touched the back of his hand to Wilson's forehead. No fever yet, which was good news. "So which do you want to do first – heavy breathing or talk about your brother?"

"Neither."

House dropped heavily onto the sofa across from Wilson. His leg ached, hell his whole body ached. "You prescribed for him. What was it?"

"House!" 

House's eyes were cunning. "If you want to wear something other than Jockey shorts all weekend, you'd best start talking."

Wilson glared at him, then turned into the sofa. For a moment, there was silence between them and House began to doubt that Wilson would answer his question.

"Dexedrine," Wilson finally mumbled, turning back but refusing to meet his eyes.

"Amphetamines. Why?"

"Second question?"

"Follow up."

Wilson stared at a point on the fireplace. "I was in residency. David had been drifting for a couple years and finally got this job with a mail order company. Night shift. Needed something to stay awake."

"You fell for that? You're dumber than I thought."

"Don't tell me you never took uppers to get through med school and residency. I did."

"You didn't have a history of drug abuse."

"He told me the marijuana was just a one-time thing."

"And you believed him?''

"I know, it sounds stupid now. But I was on already a doctor while he was barely holding down a minimum-wage job. I just wanted him to succeed at something."

"So what happened? He turn into Dexy's Midnight Runner?"

"You really want to hear this?"

"I really want to watch _Debbie Does Dallas_, but seeing as there's no electricity, I have to get my kicks somehow."

"I wrote for about six months. Then I went to visit him at the office."

"And there was no office."

"Oh, there was. David just didn't work there. Hadn't worked there in months."

"And had been selling the uppers you'd prescribed."

Wilson shrugged. "Don't know. Probably."

House leaned forward onto his cane. "Time for a deep breath."

"It hurts."

"Pneumonia hurts worse. Breathe."

"You have," Wilson gasped, "a lousy bedside manner."

"I save my charm for when I'm _in_ bed." He watched as Wilson sucked in a gulp of air, straining with the effort. Distraction was often the best medicine. "So, how many times did you try to help him?"

"House, don't want to do this."

"You agreed to three questions. Let's call this number two."

"He came to me for another scrip." Wilson's breaths were shallow, with slight pauses between each sentence. "I told him if he didn't get help, he'd end up in jail, or worse."

"And?"

"He was pissed. Said I'd always been my parent's favorite; that I didn't know what it was like for him. We argued; he took off."

"Then he came back." It wasn't a question.

"Few months later. Needed money."

"And you gave it to him."

"He looked like hell, no job. What else could I do?"

"I bet you even offered to let him stay with you."

Wilson's guilty expression was his answer.

House thought about that for a minute. "It made you feel good, didn't it, helping him?"

Wilson eyes lazily focused on him. "Huh?" 

"Your marriage was a wreck, your patients were dying because that's what cancer patients do. Here was someone you could help. James Wilson to the rescue."

"House, we've been through this before."

"But it didn't work, did it?" House pressed on relentlessly. "David needed your money, needed your scrips, but hated the fact that he needed you. And started to hate you for it."

When Wilson again turned away, House knew he was onto something.

"I bet the one thing your brother wanted was for you to say no. Wanted the guy he respected most in the world to tell him that he was a man and could do it by himself. But, instead, you had to help him. And that made him feel impotent, worthless."

"Yeah, House," Wilson said, bitterness evident in his tone, "you know my brother you've never met better than I do."

"I know what it's like to be pitied better than you do."

"So you think I should have just thrown him out into the street?"

"He was already on the street."

"And I was supposed to leave him there, without money, food, a home, hooked on drugs . . . ."

"There are some things you can't solve, people you can't help."

"He was my _brother_. I had to try."

"You always have to try. The problem is that you can't handle the failure when it doesn't work out."

"I deal with failure every day – like you said, most of my patients die."

"Not the same."

Wilson gave a deep sigh. "No, it's not."

For nearly a minute, there was silence in the room. House eyed Wilson critically. It wasn't nearly as much fun to torment an emotionally and physically drained opponent. And, quite frankly, he wouldn't mind a few minutes of rest himself. He remained silent, watching Wilson's chest rise and fall. Within minutes, the steadiness of his breathing assured House that his friend was asleep.


	8. Serious conversation

Disclaimer: Don't own House & company. Don't even rent them. But I do borrow them and put them right back.

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House flipped the page of the _Journal of Infectious Diseases_, huddled close to the window to capture the remaining daylight. Outside, ice clung to the trees, roof, and railings but had stopped falling from the sky. The fireplace radiated enough heat to keep them warm. Between the logs Wilson had brought up and the small stack already stored in the cabin, House wouldn't need to make the dangerous trip outside until at least tomorrow morning.

Earlier, House had helped Wilson wriggle into a set of sweats and even convinced him to take more Advil. Even so, Wilson's sleep was fitful, interrupted every few minutes by a painful shift of position or catch in his breathing. Although confident that Wilson's injuries weren't serious, he'd feel better once they could get to a hospital and confirm his diagnoses. Until the roads cleared, however, it was too risky to drive. For now, they were stuck.

"House, I need to pee."

House glanced over the top of his reading glasses to find Wilson struggling to sit upright on the couch. He pointed to the medical bag. "You pack a urinal?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Of course not."

"We could improvise."

"I can walk to the bathroom," Wilson declared firmly.

"Your knee isn't steady."

"You said yourself there isn't any serious damage. Walking twenty feet won't kill me." He motioned impatiently. "Help me before I go all over the sofa."

With a sigh of irritation, House pushed himself upright, provoking a stab of protest from his thigh. Wobbling precariously, he reached for a handhold to steady himself until the pain subsided. However, the arms of the sofa were too low and, an instant later, he fell back onto the cushions, doing his best not to allow more than a soft grunt to escape.

It had been noticed. "House, what's wrong?"

House waved off Wilson's concern. "Sitting too long in one position." Wilson's gaze didn't waver as he gently massaged his leg, willing the pain to dissipate. The second attempt to stand still hurt, more than it should, but this wasn't the time to show weakness and, besides, there wasn't a damned thing Wilson could do.

He helped Wilson stand and ceremoniously handed over his cane. "I rent by the hour." Wilson briefly experimented with the cane then worked his way down the darkened hallway, House hobbling alongside.

"I can do this myself," Wilson said.

"You don't have any practice being a cripple."

"I'm a quick learner."

House allowed Wilson to go into the bathroom alone, settling for leaning heavily against the wall outside. Without his cane, House's damaged leg had been forced to absorb more weight, making his limp even more pronounced and planting a grimace on his face.

Wilson emerged a few minutes later, looking as drained as House felt.

"You'd better make it back okay," House said, eyes summarizing Wilson's condition. "If you fall, I'm not picking you up."

"I'll keep that in mind," Wilson managed through clenched teeth. Upon reaching the couch, he gingerly lowered himself and handed back the cane.

"Where's it hurt?" House asked, towering over him.

"Your leg, obviously."

This time, he decided to let Wilson get away with turning the question on him. "My leg always hurts."

"Not this bad. You hurt it helping me up the stairs, didn't you?"

"Wilson, you may not believe this, but not everything is your fault."

"Let me look at it."

House pirouetted in a poor imitation of a runway model. "See it?"

"Stop that. Sit down and let me check it." It was Wilson's doctor voice, the one that House hated when it was turned on him.

"In case you hadn't noticed, your wrist is sprained."

Wilson gestured with his right hand. "I'll manage."

"My leg is the same today as it was yesterday and the day before that and the day before that . . . ."

"Why won't you admit that you're having breakthrough pain?"

At least Wilson appeared for the moment to have given up trying to examine him. "That was the patient who called hours ago." He reached for Wilson's chin. "Better make sure you don't have a concussion."

Wilson batted away his hand. "The Vicodin's been keeping the pain tolerable. You've upped the dose but you're still hurting. It's not enough anymore, is it?"

"Lie back, I want to check you over."

Wilson didn't move. "That's why you wanted to do the trial at Mass General. His voice was gentle, almost sad. "You needed something more."

Wilson the martyr; almost as bad as Wilson the doctor. Time to change the subject. "Yeah, yeah, you got me. Now lie back."

"House, do you have any idea the hell you put your team through, simply because you wouldn't admit your pain was worse?"

"I didn't put them through anything. It's not my fault that they stuck their noses in my business."

Wilson coughed slightly "You could have at least told _me_."

"It wasn't any of your damned business."

Wilson sighed and shook his head. "But it is my business to make sure you get your Vicodin fix."

"I told you last night that if you have a problem with that, you should stop."

"I'm trying to help you."

The self-righteous Wilson – the worst of all. "I know. Just like you wanted help your brother. I'm not your project."

"I thought you were my friend." Wilson coughed again, harder, arm braced against his ribcage.

House grabbed the stethoscope and shoved it under Wilson's sweats. "Keep it up." Coughing worked as well as deep breathing in keeping Wilson's lungs clear. In less than a minute, Wilson had settled down, though still slightly breathless. House pressed him back against the couch, and pulled up the quilt. "I'll get some ice," he said, reflexively rubbing his leg.

"I'm fine," Wilson replied. "There's a heat pack in the bag. Doesn't need electricity. Use it."

"When did you become so bossy?"

"House, I deal with pain management every day. If the Vicodin isn't enough, we'll find something else."

"I'm running out of options. We both know it. And we both know what the ultimate option is."

Wilson's eyes narrowed. "Why would you even think that?"

"The Sword of Damocles, only it's going to chop off my leg, not my head."

"House, no one wants to amputate. There _are_ other options."

House turned away. He was tired of being told to try other options, tired of trying things that didn't relieve his pain, tired of being in pain. At times like this, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd been right to insist on saving his leg. Had he secretly believed that someday he'd be normal again?

There'd been those precious days after the Ketamine treatment when he'd been able to walk and run and climb like everyone else. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard if he hadn't been reminded what 'normal' was like. But he had, and now he desperately wanted that back, wanted his life to be defined by something other than pain that was only getting worse.

Wilson wanted to help. Wilson always wanted to help. But what would happen when there was nothing more Wilson could do? As another twinge rippled through his thigh, House feared that day was coming and it was coming much more quickly than either of them could handle.

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Thanks for all the reviews! I really appreciate all the kind words.


	9. Not again

House woke suddenly, startled out of his sleep by a noise that his mind – was it a clank or a thud? Eyes snapped open and ears listened intently but nothing followed but silence. The room was dark, and a quick check of his illuminated watch showed the time to be just after three in the morning. It was the second time he'd been awakened; the power had come back on just after midnight and the noises of returning electricity had been his first unexpected wakeup call.

He listened intently, trying to decide if whatever had awakened him was worth getting up for, even as his body begged him to stay in bed. Well, if nothing else, he should check on Wilson. House had offered him the bedroom, but Wilson said it was easier on his ribs to lie propped up on the sofa. And, as he correctly pointed out, he had experience sleeping on the couch.

The first thing House noticed on opening the bedroom door was the light across the hall. Had he left it on or had Wilson gone to the bathroom on his own? House was talking even before he'd reached the bathroom door. "What the hell are you doing walking alone? Thought I told you—" Shit! Fuck! Merde! Depp! Swear words in multiple languages flooded his brain the instant he saw Wilson was lying on the floor, half twisted around the commode. All pretense of sounding casual vanished the instant his eyes fixed on Wilson's still form. Not again! His friend's breathing was shallow and far too rapid.

"Wilson! What the fuck did you do?"

Wilson held his chest, eyes wide with fear. "Can't breathe," he gasped.

No shit.

"Got that." Even years of medical training couldn't quite keep the panic out of his voice. "Need doctor stuff. Hang tight." Right, easy for him to say. The swear words kept coming as House hurried back to the main room and grabbed the medical bag. What Wilson needed was a hospital, trauma team, x-rays and probably a chest tube. There was only so much he could do here. Shit!

There was no room to work in the small bathroom. Moving Wilson was dangerous. But Wilson not being able to breathe was worse; he'd have to risk it. Leg screaming in protest, he reached under Wilson's arms and pulled him into the hallway.

He gently tapped Wilson on the cheek. "Still with me?" Wilson's eyes fluttered in response.

Lowering himself to the ground, House upended the medical bag and rifled through the contents nearly shouting with relief when his eyes focused on the thoracostomy kit. Thank God, the devil, or all the tea in China. He had absolutely no idea why Wilson brought the kit one other than out of some weird sense of overpreparedness, but doing so might very well save his life. House braced Wilson's torso against his knee, pressing a stethoscope against his back. Left side breath sounds were good. He moved the instrument and listened carefully to the right lung. Nothing. Could be a tension pneumo. Shit. Either a broken rib, trauma from this latest fall, or some combination had probably caused air to become trapped in his chest. Wilson could barely breathe.

House flipped open his cell phone, cradling it in the crook of his shoulder, freeing up his hands. He had no idea if the roads had improved enough for an ambulance to reach the cabin, but staying here was a death sentence for Wilson.

"9-1-1," the voice answered almost immediately, "what's your emergency?"

"I have a 40-year-old male who fell in a bathroom. Tachycardic and tachypnoeaic—" House stopped himself. Use plain English; the idiot answering these calls wasn't a doctor. "My friend fell in the bathroom," he continued more slowly. "He's having chest pain and trouble breathing. Absent breath sounds on the right. I'm going to do a needle decompression."

"Uh, sir, I can't recommend—"

"I'm a doctor, dammit, I know what I'm doing." All semblence of patience was abandoned. "Just get the EMTs here. He's going to need a chest tube." Using the surgical scissors, he sliced through Wilson's sweatshirt, exposing his chest.

The voice on the phone was still talking. "Sir, what's your name?"

"House. Dr. Gregory House."

"And your address?"

Shit. How was he supposed to know? "Wilson! What's the address of this place?"

Wilson struggled to answer, but either pain and fright or both kept the words from coming out.

"Fuck."

"Sir?" the 911 operator asked hesitantly.

"I don't know."

"It's alright, sir. We'll get the location from your cell phone. We're dispatching someone now. I need you to stay on the line with me."

"No can do. Lives to save." House tossed the phone aside, leaving it on in case they still needed it for location and turned his attention back to Wilson.

"I think you have a tension pneumo. Help's coming but, in the meantime, I've got to relieve the pressure. Got it?"

Wilson nodded but House saw fear in his eyes. Whether it was fear of what was to come or the fear of being unable to breathe, House didn't know. In the background, the 911 operator was trying to get his attention. He ignored her and instead dumped betadine over the right side of Wilson's chest, unable to avoid noticing how quickly it rose and fell. Next, he ripped open the plastic package containing the 14-gauge hypodermic, again thanking Wilson's blasted preparedness for the fact that he at least had the right supplies.

His brain struggled to pull up the pages of long-forgotten trauma textbooks as his fingers palpated Wilson's skin, searching for the anatomical landmarks. "This is gonna hurt like hell. Hold still so I don't stick the damn needlecath through your heart." The words were harsh, but House kept his tone gentle. And they both knew the threat of a heart puncture wasn't real. "You with me?" he added softly.

Wilson squinted and gave the briefest nod.

House protectively squeezed Wilson's shoulder then returned full focus to the task at hand. "Here goes." Second intercostal space, House reminded himself, as he slid the needlecath into Wilson's chest, superior to the third rib at the midclavicular line. Wilson gasped, then emitted a slight wail, but somehow managed not to move. House continued to advance the needle until he felt the pressure equalizing and the hiss of escaping air confirmed his diagnosis. Definitely a tension pneumo. House removed the stylet, and installed a flutter valve, leaving the plastic catheter in place and securing it to the chest with tape.

Almost immediately, Wilson's breathing began to ease a bit and the panic disappeared from his features.

House let out a long, slow breath. "Better?" he asked after a moment.

Wilson grunted something between "yeah" and "thanks." However, the gratitude in his now-opened eyes that told House he'd done the right thing. House again listened to Wilson's chest. "You know, you're making me do real doctor work here, Wilson." He kept up a steady commentary as he worked. Breath sounds. Not great, but there, which was a definite improvement. "You owe me big time. This is ten times worse than Clinic duty."

House took advantage of the momentary lull to reassess Wilson's vitals and check for new injuries. "What were you thinking?" he asked as hands gently probed Wilson's head, then worked their way down. "Trying to break that thick skull of yours? First rule of Cripples 101 – call for help when you need it."

He left the injured wrist and knee alone – manipulating them would only hurt and it didn't much matter at this point whether Wilson had done more damage. A light press on Wilson's abdomen produced a thick grunt. It was hard to tell whether the pain was just muscle soreness from the impact or whether Wilson had sustained internal injuries. They'd just have to wait until they reached the ER and could do an ultrasound.

"Well, the rest of you seems intact," he confirmed, hoping to reassure Wilson, whose eyes had followed his every move. Breathing was better but still not great. He still needed a chest tube. Where were those blasted EMTs?

After a moment, House lightly placed a hand on Wilson's chest, ostensibly to check the placement of the catheter. The warmth of his skin and the steady intake of breath reassured him and, at the same time, seemed to relax Wilson, who gave the slightest hint of a smile before again closing his eyes.

House wasn't sure how long they stayed that way when a loud commotion signaled the arrival of the EMTs. "Back here," he called, somewhat unnecessarily, given that they could see him from the doorway.

The next few minutes were a blur as House turned over responsibility for Wilson's care to a man and a woman who probably had barely graduated high school. Trained eyes followed their every move as they assessed Wilson's vitals and checked the catheter he'd placed.

"What's his name?" the female EMT asked.

"Wilson. Dr. James Wilson." 

"MD?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?" she asked.

House briefly related the day's events, watching as the male EMT put Wilson on oxygen then started an IV with normal saline. Had it really been less than a day since Wilson's initial tumble on the stairs?

They put on a neck brace. House almost told them not to bother but figured that it couldn't hurt and they'd find out soon enough that there weren't any spinal cord injuries.

"Dr. Wilson?" the EMT touched Wilson's shoulder and spoke loudly into his ear. "Do you know where you are?"

"Cabin," Wilson managed to get out.

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Sunday?"

"Are you in pain?"

"Not bad."

As Wilson was bundled up for transport, House had to admit that they'd done a decent job – better than he'd expected in the middle of nowhere.

"Doc," the male EMT said, plunging supplies into his bags, "good thing you were here. That needle aspiration probably saved his life."

House gazed down at Wilson, unsure how to respond. He saved lives every day, but not like this. Not like this for a long, long time.

The EMTs were ready to go which meant he needed to stand up. Propped uncomfortably on the ground so long and supporting Wilson's weight for much of that time had cramped his already aching muscles.

"Want to ride with us?" the male EMT asked, mistaking his discomfort for indecision, "or follow in your car?"

I'd like to stand up, House thought to himself. "Go with." As if he'd leave them alone with Wilson. He pointed from his leg to his cane, which had been pushed out of his reach in the frenzy. "Bum leg. Need a hand." The EMT was stronger than he looked because, in an instant, he'd hauled House to his feet, handed him the cane, and turned his attention back to Wilson.

"On three," he said, and Wilson was lifted from the floor. House followed them out, ignoring the mess, the smoldering fire, the lights, or locking up. He was thinking only of two things – keeping up with the EMTs and not falling flat on his ass while doing so.


	10. Paperwork

For House, emotional displays were useless. Getting all weepy-eyed didn't mean you cared more about your patients, and it certainly didn't help solve cases. Being emotionally invested in a patient merely clouded one's judgment, making logical and efficient diagnosis that much more difficult.

Even so, House couldn't avoid the surge of pure relief when they pulled up to the hospital's emergency entrance. He wasn't sure which had scared him more on the trip – the ambulance's slipping and sliding on the slick roads, or that he'd almost had to insert Wilson's chest tube himself. He hadn't put in a chest tube since – hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd done it. That's what his minions were for. But Wilson's breathing had been so erratic that the EMT had opened the prepackaged tray and twice ordered the driver to pull over. Each time, however, Wilson stabilized and the journey resumed.

The instant the ambulance stopped, the EMTs unloaded the stretcher and raced into the ER, leaving House to follow on his own. The ER team had obviously been alerted to their arrival; before Wilson was even in a room, a doctor was calling out orders for x-rays and bloodwork.

House slowly climbed out of the ambulance, doing his best to ignore the pain shooting through his leg. More important things to worry about. Like Wilson.

The hallway glowed eerily with harsh fluorescent lighting. Before he'd covered more than a few feet, a young Asian woman in dark blue scrubs stepped in front of him, clipboard in hand. "Excuse me, sir, are you a relative of the man the EMTs just brought in?

"Close enough," he snapped.

"Then you need to come with me. I need his medical history and insurance information."

House tried to edge past her. "And I need to see what's happening in there. So, you need to get out of my way."

"Sir, if you'll follow me to the waiting room, we can go over—"

House's stared past her, down the hallway where Wilson had been taken. "Last time I checked, doctors belong in treatment rooms, not waiting rooms. Since I'm not only a doctor, but a world famous diagnostician—"

The woman wasn't deterred. "I'm sure you are," she said in a tone that made clear she didn't care if he was the President of the United States. "But right now, your friend is getting excellent medical attention. You can help him best by going over this paperwork with me," she added with a practiced sympathetic expression.

The last thing he wanted was to fill out paperwork. With anybody. Ever. But especially not with Wilson in serious condition a few feet away. He briefly considered pushing past the annoying woman but decided that his PPTH tactics might not be tolerated here. Besides, what Wilson needed most was trauma care, and even House had to admit that wasn't his specialty.

With a heavy sigh and a last look down the ER corridor, House reluctantly followed the woman to an empty waiting room. He collapsed into the nearest orange plastic chair, finding it hard and uncomfortable. The woman sat down next to him, clipboard perched on her lap, pen in hand.

"What is the patient's full name?" she asked.

"James Evan Wilson," he replied in a tired voice.

"Date of birth?"

House answered. Crap, this was going to take forever. Why couldn't she just hand him the damn form?

Address. Profession. Social Security number. Insurance carrier. Question. Answer. Question. Answer. When she reached the bottom of the sheet, House nearly shouted out with relief. Until she flipped the page.

"Now let's go over his medical history."

House leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes and let out a very deep breath.

Finally, mercifully, she reached the last line of the last page then, with a brief explanation, started handing him forms to sign.

"This is the privacy act statement. It says –"

"I work in a goddam hospital; I know what it says," House said, scribbling his signature.

"And this gives us permission to release his medical information for insurance purposes. And this promises that he'll pay the bill if his insurance doesn't cover his care. And this . . . "

House stopped listening and just signed.

The woman stood. "Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. House." The same, annoying, practiced tone continued. "I'll let the doctors know you're here. I'm sure someone will be out to talk to you as soon as they know something."

They already know something, he thought to himself. The only one who had no clue what was happening was the same person who'd just signed enough forms to mortgage a home. He pounded his cane on the floor in frustration, pulled out his phone and called the one person who might understand and could even help. He dialed Cuddy's number.


	11. Touching

"Family for _Wilson_. Family for _James_ _Wilson_?"

House would have jumped up but could only manage to straighten in his chair and raise a hand. The large clock above the empty intake station indicated that just over an hour had passed since they'd arrived.

A young doctor in scrubs, younger than Wilson, House noted automatically, strode toward him. Seeing the cane, the man motioned House to stay seated and folded himself into the adjoining chair. "I'm Dr. Drake. I've been taking care of Dr. Wilson. Are you a relative?"

"Friend. We work together."

"Of course. You're the doctor the EMTs mentioned. Dr. House, right? Some of your articles were mandatory reading when I was in residency. Nice job on the thoracostomy, by the way."

House merely nodded. Quit sucking up and get on with it, he thought.

"Dr. Wilson's doing fine. The chest tube perked him right up."

House's eyebrows climbed at the image of a perky Wilson, but whatever.

Drake rubbed a hand across his forehead. "His bloodwork looks good; no hematuria, which is also good. I don't think there's any internal bleeding, but we'll do an ultrasound to confirm. And we'll have someone from ortho look at his wrist and knee in the morning. X-rays were negative. He'll need an MRI but there's no rush and I'd rather wait until his cardiac situation has fully stabilized." The doctor smiled. "Considering the circumstances, he's in good shape."

House merely nodded, sinking deeper into the chair as tension flowed out of his body.

"We'll admit him, of course. Probably keep him a few days, until we're comfortable pulling the chest tube."

House observed the ER doc carefully. Experience had taught him that you could learn more about a patient's condition by watching rather than listening to the medical staff. This Drake fellow was clearly relaxed and that stopped House from asking all the questions that raced through his mind. That and—

"Want to see him?" Drake asked. The man was a mind-reader.

After more than twenty-five years of practicing medicine, House thought he'd seen it all. But nothing quite prepared him for the sight of Wilson flat on his back, in a faded hospital gown and attached to a maze of tubes and wires. The beeps, hums, digital printouts, bags of fluids and lines of tubing that intimidated most ER visitors were assessed in an instant. Wilson was stable.

Their implicit rule was no touching. Not that there was much uncovered skin _to_ touch between the IV lines, pulsox meter, BP cuff, bandages, and blankets. His fingers snaked toward Wilson's hand, stopping millimeters from making contact. "You look . . . ."

"Like shit," Wilson finished for him.

House allowed his head to jiggle as if he were seriously considering the statement. "Close enough." Wilson had aged a lot in less than a day.

"Feel like shit."

"That's what happens when you get yourself stabbed twice in one day."

Wilson's eyes scrutinized him. "You look worse than I feel. Leg still hurting?"

"Carpal tunnel." House held up his wrist. "Too many admitting forms."

"Oh. Thanks."

"Had fun with your medical history."

It was Wilson's turn to look worried. "You didn't—"

"Hemorrhoids or herpes, which was it? So hard to tell them apart."

The ER nurse gave him a disapproving look, which House promptly returned.

"They're gonna admit me, aren't they?" Wilson asked.

Wilson knew better than to ask that. He had a chest tube for Christ's sake. He rolled his eyes. "There's a big sucking sound coming from that tube in your chest. What do you think?"

"You call Cuddy?" 

"Told her you got drunk, tried to hit on a biker chick---"

"You—" Wilson sputtered.

"Don't complain. She gave you the day off."

Wilson's eyes took in his surroundings. "I feel like an idiot."

"If you don't learn to feed yourself right-handed, you're going to look like one too." The comment earned him another glare from the nurse. "Don't you have bedpans that need changing?" House challenged.

"I need to stay with my patient."

"He's hooked to a dozen monitors. I guarantee that if he sneezes at least a couple will go off."

When she still remained dubious, he exchanged a pointed look with Wilson. Suddenly, he sneezed. Equally suddenly, alerts sounded from at least two of the machines to which he was attached.

House couldn't resist an _I told you so _stare. The nurse huffed loudly, silenced the alarms, checked the seal of the chest tube, and, with a thinly veiled threat to return in a few minutes, left them alone.

"House, you gotta be nice. I have to live here for a few days."

"That _was_ my nice." He nodded at the machinery. "You okay?"

"Yeah. They did a good job. _You_ did a good job."

Wilson had just broken the no compliments rule. "Self preservation. Who else would buy me lunch?"

"Glad your priorities are in order."

"The way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

"Knew I was on the right track."

"Don't do that again, Wilson."

Wilson seemed momentarily confused. The meds were obviously interfering with his ability to keep up with the verbal repartee. "Seduce you with lunch?" he finally asked.

"Make me play doctor."

Another, longer pause. "It's good for you. Practice for . . . next time . . . piss off . . . team." The words were slurred. Wilson was tiring and the meds were kicking in.

House remained quiet, allowing his fingers to inch forward until they met the coolness of Wilson's skin. There was a slight jerk and then Wilson's body relaxed; his eyes closed and there was no sound in the room other than the monotonous beeping that assured House his friend was alive and well.


	12. Issues

Life was good – or at least not too bad, House thought as headed toward Wilson's room. It was Wilson's second full day in the hospital and Cuddy had done what Cuddy did best – well, other than wear low-cut blouses and tight skirts. She'd pulled a few strings and arranged for House to have temporary hospital privileges. He'd stayed the first night and most of yesterday, hovering, monitoring, double checking until, by late afternoon, even Wilson was urging him to leave. Back at the cabin, he'd spent the night packing up their stuff and sleeping fitfully.

The orthopods had rendered their verdict on Wilson's wrist and knee – sprains that would resolve with rest and a little rehab. An ultrasound had ruled out internal injury. So, that left Wilson with a chest tube and various aches and pains and left House escaping at least three days of Clinic duty.

He continued onto Wilson's room without stopping to read his chart. A call to the charge nurse earlier this morning confirmed that the patient was doing well, thank you. Pain meds had ensured a decent night's sleep, the chest tube drainage had subsided, vitals were strong. It was up to the admitting physician, the nurse was careful to point out, but in her opinion, the tube would be pulled later today and Wilson might be released as early as tomorrow.

So, other than the usual nagging in his leg, House had much to make him smile. That smile, however, vanished the minute he entered Wilson's room. Wilson's mouth had formed a tight line and his lower lip had disappeared. Wilson was pissed.

House scanned the monitors – all good. The Foley was gone, which alone should have been cause for celebration. Wilson was sitting up in bed, with plenty of happy juice flowing through his veins. Since there was no obvious medical reason for Wilson to be pissed, House couldn't escape the sinking feeling that Wilson's sour mood had something to do with him.

The deep brown eyes met his, intense and unwavering. "You told them I was taking anti-depressants," Wilson said without preamble.

"Duh."

"Why? Why did you tell them?"

"Let's see." House glanced skyward, pretending to think about the question, then looked back at Wilson. "Oh, right. That would have been the part of your medical history when they asked about current medications."

"You didn't have to--"

House leaned into his cane with both hands. "You know anti-depressants don't mix with certain meds. What'd you expect me to do? Let them induce a fatal interaction?"

Wilson wasn't appeased. "Well, apparently they decided that if I was taking anti-depressants, I was depressed."

"That would be the usual reason people take anti-depressants."

"And, because I was depressed, I obviously needed to talk to a psychiatrist. So they sent Dr. Blume to _evaluate_ me."

House shrugged. "Okay."

"Not okay."

House hobbled over to the room's only chair and eased himself down. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it beat standing and this conversation looked like it could take awhile. "So what? You've talked to a shrink before. What's another one, more or less?" He adjusted his position to take pressure off his thigh. "You make up a bunch of nonsense about your mother, they nod, write something useless in your chart and go away."

"He accused me of trying to kill myself."

House was pretty sure his jaw had dropped and, quite frankly, that didn't often happen. 

"I told Blume that I'd been off my meds for a couple of weeks. He suggested that, without my meds I was depressed and that my 'accidents' weren't really accidents."

"I hope you told him he was the one who needed a psychiatrist."

"I wouldn't have had to tell him _anything_ if you hadn't felt the need to spill every detail of my life."

House started to blurt out an excuse, a reason. Thought about explaining to Wilson that he'd been worried, would have told that annoying woman with the clipboard anything to make sure Wilson lived. Somehow, he didn't think explanations would improve Wilson's mood. Better to let Wilson vent; he'd deal with the repercussions later.

"I finally managed to convince him I wasn't suicidal," Wilson continued. "So then what do you think he said?"

House looked down; obviously, Wilson was going to tell him and, equally obviously, he didn't even want to hazard a guess.

"He suggested that my accidents were subconscious attempts to get attention."

Wilson and Munchausen's. Now House had heard it all. "And he got all this from the fact you took some anti-depressants?" House groaned inwardly at the mere thought that Wilson was actually buying any of this. "There's a reason they call accidents _accidents_. Because they don't happen on purpose."

Wilson pointedly looked toward the window and away from him.

House wasn't following this. Did Wilson have some sort of masochist complex? Wilson was one of the most popular guys in the hospital. Why would he need to hurt himself to get attention? A flash pain stabbed across his thigh. He gripped his leg, willing the muscle to settle down.

"You okay?" came Wilson's voice from the bed.

After a moment, House looked up to find the anger in Wilson's eyes replaced with concern. "Just trying to get _your_ attention." Two could play this "attention" game.

"Ha, ha." Wilson sighed with resignation. "Where are your pills?"

"You're the one in a hospital bed. Stop worrying about me."

"Occupational hazard. Your leg's hurting."

"My leg's always hurting."

They sat in silence for a minute.

"I don't _think_ I fell on purpose," Wilson finally said. "But what if I did?"

"Why'd you see the shrink in the first place?"

"I already told you—" 

"Yeah, I know. It's _personal_." House nearly spat out the last word. Again, he allowed silence to permeate the room. "Something to do with me?" he asked, finally, keeping his tone light and his eyes off Wilson's face.

"Like you said, not everything is about you."

House smiled. "For me it is."

"I just—I just needed someone to talk to."

"That's what hookers are for."

"That's the problem. It's all a joke to you. Even getting cancer was a joke.

"For the last time, I didn't have cancer!"

"That's not the point!"

"Then what _is_ the point? What's got you so upset that you have to spend afternoons with a shrink and the rest of the time downing happy pills?"

"Look at me."

House rolled his eyes and bit his lower lip but allowed his eyes to meet Wilson's.

"What do you see?" Wilson asked.

"Is this one of those exercises you do with your psychiatrist?"

Wilson sighed heavily. "Just tell me what you see."

House shrugged. "I see a 40-year-old oncologist who, were he not a total klutz, would right now be sitting in a ski cabin in front of a fire toastin gooey marshmallows and spilling his life's story but, instead, is stuck in a hospital room with an odd need to engage in some sort of impromptu psychobabble."

"House, I've been divorced three times. I've had sex with a dying patient. My brother's been MIA for a decade. I live in a hotel room. And then the person I thought was my best friend doesn't trust me as a doctor or a friend. And you want to know why I might be a little depressed?"

House found this entire conversation was depressing and only aggravating the pain in his leg. He pulled the Vicodin bottle from his pocket.

"Is Vicodin your answer to everything?"

"It's my answer to the pain."

House was preparing himself for Wilson's retort when a nurse's aide pushed into the room with the small machine that would register Wilson's vital signs. He certainly wasn't going to continue this discussion in front of her and, a quick glance at Wilson showed he was tiring too.

"Need to take your vitals," she announced in the cheery, too loud voice that nursing staff used to flaunt their perceived power over the old, weak and helpless.

Wilson kept his eyes closed as the aide wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm. The whole thing was rather ridiculous, given that Wilson's pulse, BP and respirations were already being tracked by the various monitors attached to his body. But House knew too well from personal experience that hospitals had established procedures and trying to convince anyone that they were duplicative or unnecessary was rarely successful. Besides, it provided a convenient excuse to leave.

Leaning heavily on the arms of the chair, he pulled himself into a standing position, stealing a glance at the chest tube drainage.

"I'm going to see about getting that tube pulled," he said. "I'll check back later."

Wilson didn't answer immediately and House didn't wait for a reply before slipping from the room.


	13. Release

The Wilson charm was in full force when House returned to his hospital room the following afternoon. Two attractive female nurses hovered, one kneeling down to remove his IV and the other towering above him while reviewing discharge instructions.

"Working 'em high and low, eh?" House asked, earning angry stares from the two women. That seemed to happen a lot lately.

Wilson gave him an amused look over the head of the IV nurse. "Afternoon, House."

"Ready to blow this joint or . . . something else?"

Wilson rolled his eyes in amusement, disapproval, or both. Almost immediately, those same eyes dropped eagerly to the bag in House's left hand. "Those my clothes?"

House swung the bag behind his back. "I'm kind of partial to that blue and white number," he said, nodding at Wilson's checked hospital gown.

"I'm sure Karen here could get you one of your own," Wilson responded.

A coy smile from the IV nurse. Wilson probably had her phone number, if not a date already lined up.

"Dr. Wilson," the paperwork nurse said sternly, clearly annoyed at having her practiced discharge routine interrupted. "We need to finish this so we can get you out of here. This is your prescription for physical therapy." She handed him a form. "Normally, we set up the first appointment, but given that you don't live here, you'll need to follow up with the social worker at your hospital—"

"Got it," House interrupted.

She gave him another nasty look then handed Wilson another scrip. "This is for Percocet. It's important that you take it before you—"

"Got it," House repeated, stepping forward and reaching for the papers in her hand. "He's a doctor. I'm a doctor. I'm his doctor. Just give him the damned pen and let him sign his life away."

House gave Wilson a wink; the nurse gave House a snort. For a moment, Wilson tried placating her then gave up and awkwardly signed with his right hand whatever she put in front of him. A simple "X" would have looked more legible. The instant he'd finished, the nurse collected her paperwork and stomped out of the room.

The IV nurse gave it one more try. "Dr. Wilson, it's been a pleasure having you here. I only wish all of our patients—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," House interjected, motioning impatiently for her to finish.

"Keep pressure on this until it stops bleeding," she said, her tone a little miffed as she pressed a gauze pad against the back of Wilson's hand. "I'll call for a wheelchair." She turned to House. "If you bring your car around to the front, we'll meet you there."

"You didn't have to be so rude," Wilson said half-heartedly when she'd left. He reached for the bag of clothes. "Close the curtain, will you?"

"And spoil the view?"

House pulled the curtain around the bed and leaned against the wall as Wilson changed. Trained eyes searched for any sign of lingering distress. Given what Wilson had been through the past few days, he looked surprisingly good. Still, the minimal effort of dressing clearly tired him because, once Wilson had pulled on his pants, he sat down heavily to work on his shirt and shoes.

"Sure you're up to driving?" Wilson asked, pulling on his socks. "It's gonna take close to four hours if we don't hit traffic. And we still have to go back to the cabin--"

"Done."

"What's done?"

"Packed up your stuff," House announced proudly.

"House!" Wilson's voice was filled with despair. "Your leg . . ."

"I'll be all noble now and you can be all thankful later."

Wilson finished tying his shoes. "House, I'm sorry this weekend got so – messed up."

"Yeah, four days of no GameBoy was a real killer. I was at level 45."

"No way."

"It'll take me weeks to get back in top form."

"No way, you're not at 45."

"I so totally am."

The banter continued all the way to the car.


	14. Turnabout

The drive home had been made mostly in silence. Wilson was buckled into the passenger seat, reclined into an almost flat position. House couldn't tell whether he was asleep or resting, but he was definitely quiet. It was one of the things House appreciated most about Wilson – the man rarely felt the need to talk simply to fill silence.

For the first two hours, House felt fine. The two Vicodin he'd swallowed before leaving the hospital had kept his pain at bay. They were making good time and, with a little luck, might be in Princeton before sunset.

The pain started with an ache. Nothing unusual; his leg always ached. Twenty minutes and as many miles later, the ache became a throb and his hand reflexively reached into his pocket for the bottle of Vicodin, stopping only when his brain reminded him that it was now empty. He stole a glance at Wilson, slumped in the passenger seat, eyes still closed. Thought about saying something; decided against it. The man needed rest.

By hour three, they'd hit traffic and the throbbing in his leg was replaced with outright pain. House recognized the cause – the Vicodin was wearing off. Bumper-to-bumper traffic meant frequent stops and starts, which translated into constant pressure as his right foot switched from brake to accelerator. Tail lights in front of him blared bright red. Again, he braked, sending pain cascading from foot to hip. This wasn't working.

Beside him, Wilson continued to snooze. House slowed, edging the car toward the right lane and the nearest exit.

Wilson awoke to the car rounding the curve of the exit ramp. "We there already?" he asked, pulling the seat into an upright position.

"Pit stop."

"Bathroom break?"

"Not exactly," he replied through clenched teeth. Ahead on both sides of the road, were low-rise chain motel chains that promised they were designed by business travelers for family vacations, or something like that.

By now, Wilson had sensed something was awry. "House, what's wrong? Why are we stopping?"

He ignored Wilson, his attention focused on simply inching the car toward the nearest motel. By the time they reached the covered entry, he was breathing heavily, one hand on the wheel, the other gripped tightly on his thigh. Using his left foot to brake, he brought the car to a stop.

"Your leg?" Wilson asked tentatively. "Bad?"

House nodded, now beyond words. Immediately, there was a shuffling beside him that his brain registered as Wilson climbing out of the car. Wilson shouldn't be moving.

House lost track of how much time had passed before the car door opened and strong hands reached under his shoulders. Not Wilson's hands.

"Easy, I got you," an unfamiliar voice said. The one with the strong arms.

"Careful with his right leg." _That_ was Wilson.

His body was lifted, twisted from the car. A cane appeared in his hand.

Damn! He leaned into the stranger, who easily absorbed his weight. Words were murmured in his ear; encouragement that only a portion of his brain registered. Something about a room right in front of them. A step, a stumble, another step.

"Almost there. Hold on."

He allowed himself to be manhandled into the room and onto the bed, immediately curling into a fetal position, hands hugging his thigh. More soft voices and then the unfamiliar presence disappeared.

"Where are your meds?" Wilson asked, rummaging through his pockets. Within seconds, he'd pulled out the amber plastic vial. "House, where are your meds?"

"Out."

"You're out?" Wilson's voice was disbelieving. "How long have you been out? What were you doing driving without your meds?"

House was too tired and in too much pain to answer.

"Okay, hold on another minute."

Pressure lifted from the bed, a door opened and closed, and House was alone with his pain. Minutes that seemed like hours later, the bed dipped and his left arm was held in a vise grip. Attempts to pull away met with firm resistance.

"Hold still. This'll help."

There was a tightening on his upper arm, a needle prick, and then the rush of relief through his veins. As the pain slowly rescinded, he was aware of light pressure on his wrist. "Morphine?" he whispered, his brain unable to process how Wilson had managed to obtain the drug.

"Yeah." A moment later, "Better?"

House carefully opened his eyes. Wilson—Wilson looked like hell. Rings of his normally perfectly coifed hair hung down his forehead, mixing with beads of perspiration. His breath was hitched and lips were in the tight line that meant either anger or pain. Shit, Wilson had just been released from the hospital. Broken ribs, sprained wrist. How'd he manage to inject the morphine right-handed? He struggled to sit up.

Pressure against his chest competed with stabbing in his leg. The leg won and he dropped back onto the bed. "Where'd you get the morphine?"

"Secret stash. Brought some along just in case." House tried to imagine where Wilson had stashed the morphine – the glove box? – but was too tired and relieved to care.

Wilson eased himself off the bed. "Need to take off your pants so I can check your leg."

House shook his head. "You know what's wrong with it."

"Yeah, and I've seen it before and I'm going to see it again. And," he said firmly, "I'm gonna look at it now."

House rolled his eyes to a point on the ceiling.

"House. You gotta help." Wilson held up his bandaged wrist.

"You shot me with morphine."

"That—was different."

The more alert portion of House's brain reminded him that Wilson performed most medical procedures with his right hand. "Just forget it."

"Take 'em off or I cut 'em off."

Arguing with Wilson in one of these moods was pointless and, after a dramatic, frustrated sigh and a few tugs, House's jeans were around his knees and his eyes were again fixed on the ceiling. There was little he hated more than someone looking at, let alone touching, his damaged thigh. But the hands that probed him now were non-threatening, familiar, gentle.

"Seems the same," Wilson said after a moment.

"Told you," House replied tiredly.

"But," Wilson stressed the word, "you're obviously having breakthrough pain. So here's what we're going to do. I'm going to call in a Vicodin scrip. In the meantime, the morphine should hold you for the night and I'll give you some of my Percocet in the morning. When we get back, you're getting another workup."

"I'm not—"

"You are. You'll start with the orthopedist, and if that doesn't work, the pain specialist, and if that doesn't work, a psychiatrist. I don't know if the pain is physical or psychological or a little of both. But it's obviously real and it's getting worse."

His forearm dropped lazily over his face. "There's nothing they can do."

"You don't know that."

Out of the corner of his eye, House saw Wilson sink into the other bed, carefully straightening out his body and settling his head on the pillow.

"This is why you're depressed, isn't it?" Wilson asked after a moment. "Worsening pain coupled with decreasing options."

"It's called reality, not depression."

"Reality can be depressing."

"How profound."

"I'm not trying to be profound. I'm trying—"

"To help, I know."

"And, from the sound of it, doing a lousy job."

"Is that what's making _you_ depressed?"

The question was met with silence. House turned on the bed, thanking the morphine for making the transition relatively painless. "Wilson, why didn't you tell me you were depressed? And don't give me the 'it's personal' bullshit."

"You're not exactly one for discussing my feelings."

"I didn't think we needed to. I thought what we had—what we have–was okay with you."

"What do we have?"

House forced himself to repress an annoyed snort. This was what he got for inviting these touchy-feely questions in the first place. "We have . . . an arrangement. We hang out. Watch porn and soaps. Drink beer. You buy me lunch. I steal your food."

"Do you realize how crazy that sounds?"

House considered the question. Crazy, sure. But always okay, at least with him. Who needed anything more? Oops – wrong question. "What do you want from me? Am I supposed to turn into Cameron – all squishy and smothering?"

"Of course not. It's just that you . . . oh, forget it."

"No, I want to hear it."

"You never want to hear it."

"I do now."

"That's because you're on a morphine high, I'm in pain, and we're sitting in a motel room with nothing better to do."

House silently nodded. Point. "I still want to hear it."

"It doesn't matter. You're not going to change."

"Of course I can change."

"House, you've had the same job, same apartment, same office, same stubble, same everything for years. Heck, you've even had the same fellows going on four years. Not gonna change."

"At least tell me how I'm supposed to change."

Suddenly, there was a chuckle from the other bed.

House frowned. "What?"

"It's funny."

"What's funny?"

More laughter. Then a harsh intake of breath and a groan. House raised himself off the bed to get a better look. And groaned himself.

"You okay?" He said it; Wilson said it. Same time.

Wilson was the first to reply. "Laughing hurts."

"Then stop."

Another snicker. "Can't."

"Why not?"

"House, do you realize that we're two middle-aged men, half naked and high, lying in bed in a cheap hotel room discussing our feelings?"

Wilson had a point. It was crazy. It was screwed up. It was them.

"You've got a problem with that?" he deadpanned.

"Not me."

"I _can_ change, you know."

Wilson let out a contented sigh. "Not sure I want you to."


	15. Changes

Once Cuddy understood the seriousness of Wilson's injuries, she'd given him more than a day off, she'd told him to take a week off. He'd protested, she'd insisted. She'd wanted him in the hospital; House wanted Wilson with him. Her only compromise was allowing Wilson to recuperate in his hotel room. In the end, Wilson had managed to convince both of them that he only needed rest and could get that on his own, in his "home."

House had grudgingly agreed, with the proviso that Wilson call him at least three times a day. To date, Wilson had faithfully done so, more or less. At first, Wilson had made the calls himself. As his physical condition and mood improved, he'd become more creative. Two days ago, House had received a call from someone claiming to have found his missing dog. Only when the caller informed him that "Hector" was safe and sound did House see the fine hand of James Wilson. Yesterday, it had been a beauty salon confirming his appointment for a leg wax, hair tinting, and pedicure. House was both annoyed and touched. If Wilson had the energy to be this diabolical, he had to be doing okay.

He'd waited with anticipation to see what Wilson would come up with this morning. The first call usually came faithfully at nine. Nine came and went, as did ten and then eleven without a call. Maybe Wilson had run out of clever tricks, maybe he'd slept in, maybe he'd simply forgotten to call. Noon came and went.

House picked at his lunch, staring at his cell phone willing it to ring, finally giving into the urge to place his own call. After four rings, the hotel's impersonal, automated answering service kicked in with a stupid message about the guest not being available. House hung up without leaving a message.

The front desk was equally unhelpful. No, they hadn't seen Dr. Wilson. Yes, his room had been cleaned. No, they didn't know if he'd been in the room. No, they couldn't check on him – guests had a right to their privacy. They'd be happy to connect House to Dr. Wilson's voice mail. Again, House hung up. This time, he also picked up his keys. If the hotel wouldn't check on Wilson, someone would have to do it.

House pulled his car into the extend-a-stay parking lot and entered the sterile lobby. He'd been here before but never taken the time to notice the surroundings. Low-slung modern beige chairs melded into beige carpet and equally beige walls. There were a handful of tone-on-tone pictures – beige, of course. The only spot of color was a large bouquet of colorful flowers on the lobby glass table. No wonder Wilson was depressed.

House ignored the receptionist and made his way past the rows of post office boxes, noting only that they were gold, not beige, and to the bank of elevators. They opened into a long hallway with the obligatory dark beige carpet in a pattern designed to conceal layers of dirt.

The first thing House noticed after letting himself into Wilson's hotel room was that the kitchen was uncharacteristically empty of any signs of meal preparation, which meant that Wilson probably hadn't eaten in the past day. Not good.

He continued through the sitting room – they didn't call these "suites" for nothing – and into Wilson's bedroom. The sound of the TV was the first thing to greet him.

Wilson leaned against the headboard, propped up by what seemed like a half-dozen pillows. Dressed in a t-shirt and sweats. Hair mussed, face flushed. Also not good. House quickly assessed the situation. "You didn't call."

Wilson shrugged. "Nothing to call about." His voice was matter of fact, and unrepentant.

"You promised—" His eyes took in the beads of perspiration pooling on Wilson's forehead. "You running a fever?" he asked.

"I'm okay. Took a hot shower a little bit ago and haven't cooled down."

House dropped the bag he was carrying and pressed his hand against Wilson's forehead, registering heat an instant before it was batted away. He sighed and motioned for Wilson to scoot over in the bed so he could sit down.

"Lift up your shirt," he ordered, reaching into his bag.

Wilson grimaced in obvious frustration. "Since when did you become Marcus Welby?"

"Since you made me stick a needle into your chest to save your sorry ass." Wilson's attempt at a verbal comeback meant that he probably wasn't _too_ ill. Still, after what they'd been through in the past week, House wasn't taking any chances. He put the tips of the stethoscope around his neck and gave Wilson his sternest look. "Take off your shirt."

Wilson clearly thought about arguing then gave an exasperated sign then, with a grunt, tugged the T-shirt over his head. The general lack of pain in the movement was a good sign.

House quickly checked the site where the chest tube had been removed, noting with relief that there was no sign of infection, then followed with a quick assessment of Wilson's breathing and cardiac status. Everything seemed fine which, on one level was reassuring but still didn't explain why Wilson was being so . . . unlike Wilson.

"It wouldn't hurt to run you into the ER," he said finally, sitting back and pulling the stethoscope from his ears.

Wilson bit down on his lip. "House, I'm fine."

"That's my line. Beside, you don't know that."

"You do."

"Wilson . . . ."

"House, quit worrying. Makes me nervous."

"Trying to change – be like you, compassionate, caring, all that crap."

"Don't. It doesn't suit you."

House stood up from the bed and dropped into the room's only chair. "You're miserable; I'm making you miserable. I try to change. That makes you more miserable. I don't get it." 

"I told you before that my . . . issues aren't all about you. Your changing won't solve _my_ problems."

"Then why did you feed me your happy pills?"

"Because I hoped they'd solve _your_ problems."

"Did you ever consider that I like my life the way it is?"

"So you like OD'ing on Vicodin, being shot, going on trial, spending time in jail, faking a terminal illness--"

Wilson's tone had been something between playful and resentful; House tried to decide which. "I like being left alone."

"So why are you here?"

"Needed lunch." 

"And so you come to visit bringing a medical bag but no food?"

House shrugged. "I'll order something."

Wilson smiled, then nodded toward the desk. "Delivery list is in the top drawer."

When the time the order from the nearby Italian restaurant arrived, they moved to the sitting room, watching the credits for _Days of Our Lives_ roll on the TV screen. _GH_ was up next.

Wilson took a bit of his pasta then dabbed his chin with a napkin. "You keep your ortho appointment?" 

"I said I would," House garbled while chewing.

"So did you?"

House only growled in response.

"And?"

"No change."

"That's . . . good. Isn't it?"

"_He_ thinks the pain's in my head." A beat. "I'm not crazy."

"Psychosomatic pain has nothing to do with psychosis. You know that. And it doesn't mean your pain even is psychosomatic. You probably just need an adjustment to your meds."

"Yeah." Unconvincing. Wishing Wilson would stop this line of questioning.

"Going to see Simmons?"

Jean Simmons, pain management specialist. "Thinking about it." Not very hard.

"House. . ." Wilson's warning voice.

A tampon commercial filled the silence. House took another huge bite of his meal. Time to change the subject. "You still owe me one question from the cabin. About your brother."

Wilson's eyes were cautious. "What's with your morbid fascination with my brother?"

"I'm interested. I care."

"You're nosy. And I already answered way more than three questions."

"I get a bonus for the thoracostomy."

Wilson seemed to consider the answer for a moment then lifted his hands in a resigned "go ahead" motion.

"Why haven't you seen David in ten years? What happened that last time?"

Wilson ignored the question and, for a moment, the only sound in the room was the inane dialogue from the TV about some doctor's ex-wife's illegitimate child. "What do you want me to say? That I obsessed over him until I drove him away?"

"Did you?"

"Probably."

"Spill."

"C'mon, House, haven't you tortured me enough?"

"Stop whining and spill. You've told me 95, what's another five?"

"The _why_ doesn't matter any more. It's over; it was over a long time ago."

"It's clearly not over; you think about it all the time."

"You think about your leg all the time, but you don't like to talk about it and you sure as hell don't like people messing with it. Same with David."

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

There was a long pause and, for a moment, House thought Wilson would actually answer. Instead, Wilson put down his food and carefully crossed his arms over his chest. "You never asked me why I went to Tritter."

House leaned his head against the back of the sofa. Here they were, having come full circle to the discussion about Tritter from the drive to the cabin over a week ago. "I already know why you did it," he replied tiredly. "Trying to save me from myself and all that. And you're changing the subject."

"There's more to it."

"It's over and done with. Doesn't matter."

"I couldn't save David," Wilson said suddenly.

"So you tried to save me."

"I tried to save myself." Wilson pointedly turned his attention to the trials and tribulations of the medical staff of _General Hospital_. It was like the old days, only it wasn't. This time it was House who wasn't actually paying attention to the show.

"Wilson . . ." House said finally.

Wilson didn't even look at him. "Don't say it."

"Don't say what?"

"Whatever you were going to say."

House frowned. He wasn't sure how to say what he wanted to say. What was normal discourse for most people was unchartered for House. Well, time to take the plunge. "I was _going_ to say," he said, mentally squinting with anticipation of Wilson's reaction, "that _Hitman_ is out."

Wilson's expression was unreadable. "It is."

House was sure he squinted for real this time. He tried again. "It's playing at the Multiplex."

"It is."

Damn Wilson. He wasn't making this easy. House wondered if he should just give up.

"You still haven't seen it?" Wilson asked, finally helping him out.

"No." He paused, refused to meet Wilson's eyes. "I thought, you know, maybe I'd wait . . . maybe we could . . ."

Wilson turned toward him, eyes wide. "Are you asking me to go to a movie? With you?"

House was sure his face was crimson. "It's not a date!"

"Of course not." Quickly, way too quickly. He refused to meet Wilson's eyes. "So, want to go or not?"

Wilson remained entranced with the soap opera. A moment later, he said, "You buying the popcorn and soda?"

"Of course not. That's why you're going."

Wilson smiled. "Of course it is."

House allowed himself a smug grin. Some things never changed. Fine with him and, he was pretty sure, fine with Wilson too.

End


End file.
